


The Heart's Desire

by sudaki



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudaki/pseuds/sudaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the argument over the Westerland incident, Kircheis is having a bad night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart's Desire

_"Kircheis."_

His ears rung – he didn't know what to say. His fear and uncertainty of what he might do warred with the horror he knew could not be undone; a swirling vision of fire and charred bones, of millions who had met their deaths at the hands of – 

_of –_

"Kircheis!"

No; they had parted hours ago, and he hadn't seen Reinhard since. He was somewhere else. Someone else was speaking to him. He'd gone out alone for a drink, and then – no, it was no good, his mind was all reeling blackness and he couldn't concentrate. If he could just let it take him –

"Kircheis! Wake up." This time it was punctuated by a sharp, startling pain. Mittermeyer had struck him.

Mittermeyer; the voice was Admiral Mittermeyer.

He opened his eyes. The light was too bright and the world swirled unpleasantly around him. It was difficult to speak. "Admiral?"

"There – what happened to you? You look a mess. What are you doing here?"

That was a very good question. He squinted, trying to still his vision. It didn't work. He didn't even know where he was.

"Never mind. A few hours in a tankbed will straighten you out. Can you stand up? I'll get you back to your ship."

"No," he said instinctively, trying to push away. His limbs were too heavy and awkward for it to be very effective. The single clear thought in his mind was that his men must not see him like this. 

"No what?" Mittermeyer renewed his grip, managing to haul him half-upright. "Here. Get your legs underneath you."

He swallowed, trying to do as requested, and clenched his eyes shut against a wave of nausea. He tasted bitterness; bile, and something else. "Not my ship." 

A grunt. He was standing now, unsteadily, leaning heavily on Mittermeyer's shoulder. He wasn't sure how long he could keep it up. "Fine – just as well, you're heavy. There's an officers' lounge down the hall. Nobody should be there at this hour."

 _It must be late,_ he thought as they made their halting way down the corridor. He couldn't remember when he'd last seen the time. It was always the same in space, anyway; the clocks of the fortress maintained an artificial schedule, mornings with no sunrise, nights no blacker than the day, always the glare of the harsh lighting that filled the man-made islands adrift in the emptiness. He'd thought after so many years he was used to it.

_He'd thought after so many years he was –_

"Here, I've got to open the door." He slumped against the doorframe as Mittermeyer fished for something in his pocket. There was a soft click, and then a rush of air as the panel slid open. "Officers only. Come on, just a little further."

The door hissed shut behind them. The world lurched violently and another wave of nausea struck; when it passed, he realized he was reclined on a long, plush divan. The deserted lounge was lit but dimly, and it was easier to open his eyes here. 

He stared at the ceiling, not quite daring to turn his head. He could hear the sound of cupboard doors and glass clinking on glass, and snatches of Mittermeyer's voice. "... really do better in a tankbed, but … can't carry you anyway ... learn the old-fashioned way ... been a while since I ..."

Footsteps approached, soft on the plush carpeting, and a tumbler was pressed into his limp hand. It was cold. 

"You'll do well to drink that," said the voice, right above him now.

He didn't remember closing his eyes again, but he must have. He worked to refocus them on the approaching glass. Despite Mittermeyer's steadying hand, it knocked against his teeth. He flinched; took a long drink. The water felt cool and calm, soothing his addled senses.

Mittermeyer let him sit back; put the tumbler on the low side table. He was forgetting his manners. "Thank you, Admiral."

His companion laughed. "You're welcome. Nothing I haven't done before. You're just lucky it was me passing by and not our Chief of Staff."

Something inside of him twisted. It must have shown on his face, because Mittermeyer said, "You're not alone. Most of us prefer to avoid him when we can."

He wanted to ask about Oberstein – about Oberstein, and Westerland, and – _Count Lohengramm,_ but it felt like something was choking him, and the words wouldn't come. He was afraid of the answers he might receive. 

He did manage to lift the glass of water and take another drink, without spilling. Mittermeyer settled in a chair nearby, and yawned. It must be late.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," he said. The words had unfamiliar shapes that seemed to tangle in his mouth, but they were coming easier than before. 

"Not at all. We're friends," came the reply. It was just a little too gentle, too kind. Mittermeyer must know, or he had guessed. Anybody who saw him like this might guess. He looked back at the ceiling. "It's good to see you again," the older man went on, in the same tone, "It's not quite the same without you around."

"Thank you," he said, "It's good to be back."

It came out sounding so raw, so hollow that Mittermeyer actually laughed. "Never mind. Don't worry about it. Just relax."

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Do you know what time it is?"

"It was past two when I started back to my rooms," Mittermeyer answered, "Might be nearer to three now."

How many hours did that make it? He couldn't remember – maybe it had been nine or ten o'clock when he'd gone out, but after that he couldn't even guess. He closed his eyes, but it didn't help. The night was lost, but the events of the previous day, and the uncertainties of the future, loomed as large as ever. What a waste of time.

_What a waste._

"I don't mean to keep you up," he said, turning his head to look at Mittermeyer. The sickness and the dizziness had subsided a bit now, but he didn't quite dare sit up. "Thank you. You've been very kind."

"Was that a dismissal?" the older man asked, sounding amused. He stretched and yawned again. "I'll go if you want me to. I thought you might want to talk."

Siegfried stared at him dumbly.

Mittermeyer smiled. "Space is a big place to be alone in," he said, "so I think men ought to stick together, that's all." The faint light reflected in his gray eyes showed no pity. 

_We're friends,_ he had said.

_Friends._

Suddenly it all swept over him in a devastating rush, far more than he knew what to do with: all the men he'd killed, their blood on his hands or their bodies charred and drifting in the blackness; the triumph and the nightmares; the woman he'd fallen in love with and worked so hard to please; the thoughts, the dreams that he had dutifully followed only to find his reasons for doing so had changed, that somewhere along the line he'd begun to believe, to want to be a part of something more than the quiet, pastoral family life he'd always envisioned for himself –

He half-opened his mouth to speak, but the words still would not come. 

He shook his head in apology and closed his eyes.

Some quiet minutes passed; then he heard Mittermeyer shift in his chair and exhale deeply. "Ah, this all has been rough, you know. It isn't the war we're used to fighting. There were some men I've served with on the other side – some good men, and some good leaders even. It's hard to fight like that; you start wondering why they picked the side they did, and maybe even why you picked the side you did, and how it's all going to come out.

"Even now that we've won, I wonder what's going to happen to them. It's a shame to think of the talent the Empire might have lost thanks to a few bad choices."

"It will be all right," Siegfried heard himself say, "Count Lohengramm won't let talented men go to waste."

"You really believe that?" He knew, without looking, that Mittermeyer was watching him intently.

"Yes, of course."

The reply had come automatically and without hesitation. Whatever had happened, it was important that – that Count Lohengramm's men had faith in him.

Siegfried himself still had faith, in that much at least.

What he doubted – what he had been afraid of, ever since he first heard the rumors – was not Count Lohengramm's abilities as a leader, or a tactician. He was afraid that his friend was becoming a stranger; that Reinhard was choosing a path that he, Siegfried Kircheis, would not be able to follow.

_Space is a big place to be alone in._

The past few months marked the longest time he had been apart from Reinhard since they'd met; and they had been difficult. Alone, he was never certain he could do what he had to do. He found himself always worrying, always looking over his shoulder for someone who was not there.

Across the room, Mittermeyer rubbed his eyes absently with one hand, and yawned again. "What's done is done, I suppose. We just go on and make the best of the choices we did make. Anyway, after the surrender tomorrow maybe things will quiet down for a while; I could do with a few days at home." Siegfried turned to him to find his expression turned distant, the faint touches of an altogether different smile tugging at his lips. 

He didn't say so, but he thought he could do with a few days at home, too. A few nights sleep in a real bed meant the nightmares would come; but they would pass, and with time, everything would fall back into its familiar rhythm. He realized suddenly how _tired_ he felt, all over, through and through. 

Suddenly he remembered the look of his friend's face, the crease hovering between his brows even before they had argued. Reinhard must feel the same way. 

In that moment, he had no doubt of it.

He breathed deeply and swung his legs over the side of the couch, preparing to stand. His head spun unpleasantly, but it was nowhere near as bad as before. 

"Feeling better?" Mittermeyer asked.

"Yes; thank you," he answered. The smile he offered was thin and tired, but genuine. "I'm really sorry for troubling you."

"I'm sure you'll get a chance to pay me back," the older man answered. He stood first, and offered Siegfried a hand up. "Going back to your ship now? Sure you can make it?"

"Yes, I'll be all right." With Mittermeyer's help he got to his feet, and found standing unaided was not too terribly difficult, any more. He would probably feel terrible in the morning, but he had only himself to blame; and the hangover, too, would pass, and when they were back home and everything was normal again it would be only one of a few unpleasant memories of this place. 

"I was frightened," he said, with an embarrassed smile, "I guess I was pretty foolish about it."

"Never mind. Happens to everyone." The door into the corridor opened, and they turned to go their separate ways. 

"See you in the morning, Admiral."


End file.
